


Far from the Aravels

by servantofclio



Series: Branwen Lavellan [12]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-05-16 21:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 7,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5840866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servantofclio/pseuds/servantofclio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life as the Inquisitor is far from the world she knew.</p>
<p>A collection of short fics about Branwen Lavellan, rogue and Inquisitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bonfire

On the last day of the Arlathvhen, there was a bonfire, one last night of gathering before the clans parted to resume the wanderers’ path. 

The first one Branwen remembered, she had still been quite young—five or six or seven, perhaps, she would have to count backward to be sure. Small enough to be held in her mother’s arms and curl up in her lap while hunters from every clan lit the great fire. It had been built over the many days of the Arlathvhen, with everyone’s help; Branwen herself had not been too small to carry kindling, though it was more experienced folk who placed the wood into a carefully constructed mound. 

On that last night, all the talking was done, relics traded, promises made, couples handfasted, and all that was left to do was this. The clans gathered around the fire quietly, and when one youth from each clan finally stepped forward, torch in hand, to light the pyre, it was done in complete silence. 

Branwen watched, wide-eyed, as the fire caught, and the flames rose. She remembered feeling the heat of the fire on her face and squinting her eyes against the light as her mother’s hands curled around her and pulled her close.

She didn’t know who started the singing—a woman’s voice, high and sweet and true, but she remembered the voice ringing out of the darkness, and she remembered other voices joining one by one. It was an old song, maybe one of their oldest, a song about parting ways and wandering, shedding tears for those one would not see again. Even Branwen’s mother sang, though singing was not her gift, her voice weak and thin and raspy, and Branwen joined in as best she could, though she didn’t quite understand. She would understand better ten years later, and better yet after another decade, as clans appeared with new Keepers, new hahren, and some did not appear at all.

If she sat before the fire in her quarters and closed her eyes, she could remember, sometimes, what that bonfire felt like, and how her people’s voices sounded in her ears.


	2. Surprisingly domestic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Haven; a little early bonding between Branwen and Solas

Someone probably would have offered to have someone fix things for her, if she had asked, but Branwen preferred to handle things herself. So, when she finally found a free hour, she took her things over to the cabin Solas was staying in and settled herself down on the porch.

He regarded her without comment as she took out her things—socks that needed darning, a coat with several tears, a leather sheath growing worn, a shirt in need of a patch—and set to work.

She could do all this; these were simple chores she’d been taught to do as soon as her fingers could manage a needle. These were problems she could fix, mend, patch, darn, repair. So much easier than a hole in the sky, and a war that had nothing to do with her. This had nothing to do with the arcane, or with politics, or even with shemlen at all, and this she could do. She kept her eyes fixed on her task, not on the yawning green gulf in the sky overhead, and let the repetitive motion ease her mind and heart.

Solas was restful company, too, willing to sit and page through his book without idle chatter, or even asking her why she was there and whether she was all right. She had grown tired of that question, even when it was kindly meant. Too often it was asked by some human, looming a little taller than was comfortable, someone who wanted only to hear that yes, the Herald was fine and her mark perfectly functional, someone who did not want to hear that Branwen was tired or frustrated or that her arm still ached.

At length, the frustrations snarled around her heart unknotted, and she asked Solas what he was reading, and so they began a conversation, simple and easeful, the kind of conversation where a moment’s silence was no discomfort.

“That is an interesting technique,” he commented, as Branwen braided the frayed ends of some trim together to keep them secure.

She stole a glance at him. “My mother taught me when I was young,” she said, and carefully: “Did your people not do it this way?” She had learned, even in a few short months, that Solas would talk at length about his travels, but said little of where he had come from. What little he did say was so tinged with melancholy that Branwen hesitated to ask anything further, for fear of opening some old wound.

“They did not,” he said, with a moment’s smile that told her she had not misstepped, and they sank back into a tranquil silence.


	3. In Her Element

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Branwen falls in love with the Storm Coast.

“The damp gets into everything,” the Iron Bull says when the latest round of rain showers begins on the Storm Coast. He doesn’t appear too displeased, however, perhaps because so much of his skin is uncovered to begin with.

Varric grumbles and turns up the collar of his coat, ducking his head as if that will help avoid the rain. Cassandra endures the wet stoically enough, as she does most distasteful things, her mouth firming into a dour line. Sera makes a clotted noise at the back of her throat. “Sensible folk know when to get out of the rain,” she mutters.

“Our work is pressing,” Solas points out. The vagaries of weather are simply something travelers must cope with; this rain is merely uncomfortable, not dangerous.

Sera sniffs and shoots a dark look in his direction. “Figures,” she says obscurely, and adds, “at least Herself is happy.”

Solas follows the jerk of her head toward Branwen Lavellan, who had been scouting the path ahead of them, as usual, and now stands with her face upturned into the rain, stretching her arms out into it. She pulls off her cap and Solas can only watch with bemusement as she lets the water soak into her intricately braided hair.

A moment later, she takes off, only barely jamming the cap back into place before skidding down a heap of wet, glistening rocks, somehow keeping her feet even though any normal person would fall and probably break a bone. At the base, she whips a knife out of her sleeve and cuts off yet another stalk of spindleweed, brandishing it cheerfully before tucking it into a belt pouch. “Well?” she calls up. “Let’s get a move on.”

Varric, Cassandra, and Sera sigh as one. Possibly the only time the three of them have agreed on anything, Solas thinks, and looks for a slightly easier route down to join Branwen, who’s now splashing in shallow water like a child, face turned up to the rain with a smile on her face.


	4. New camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something soothing about setting up a camp.

It’s calm and orderly, setting things right at the end of the day, and there’s also the challenge of making the most of their surroundings. Branwen likes it; it puts her in mind of travels with her clan.

She’s been traveling with these companions long enough for their habits to become familiar, almost as familiar as those of her clanmates: how Sera will inevitably complain about the weather, disappear for half an hour, and return with a few rabbits or squirrels for the stew; how Blackwall settles down with some whittling once the tents are pitched, and how Dorian fusses over his gear.

Vivienne never complains about the traveling conditions (not what Branwen would have expected) and the one thing Branwen has not figured out is how she manages to stay clean, even immaculate, while the rest of them are filthy and reeking of blood and dirt and spider guts at the end of a day.

Magic, she concludes, and leaves it at that.


	5. Glad it was you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Branwen and Cassandra come to an understanding.

“I’m glad it was you,” Cassandra says abruptly.

Branwen Lavellan almost misses a stride and stares up at the other woman with wide eyes. The remark comes apropos of nothing. They are climbing up from Haven’s training ground to the Chantry to meet with the others, the air is bright and cold and clear, and they had been talking of nothing more personal than battle tactics only moments before. “What?” she says, wondering if she mis-heard somehow.

Cassandra makes a rough noise in her throat. Branwen is used to thinking of this as Cassandra being annoyed with something, but she says, “I had my doubts at first, but we are fortunate that you are the one to bear the mark.”

Branwen blinks and has to resist the urge to flee from the Seeker’s scrutiny. Only Cassandra isn’t really looking at her, her dark eyes fixed on the path ahead as if something might spring out of it. Branwen rubs her left palm against her thigh. Cassandra can’t possibly be serious, but a few weeks’ acquaintance suggests that Cassandra is _always_ serious. “I’m not even—” she says, and stops herself to choose her words more carefully. Cassandra can’t possibly have forgotten that she’s Dalish. “You know your Maker isn’t mine.”

“Exactly,” Cassandra says. “You give us a different perspective. We can speculate all we like about Andraste’s will, but we must keep our eyes on the problems in front of us if we hope to solve them.”

“Right,” says Branwen slowly. She will never believe that the humans’ Andraste had anything to do with what happened to her. She has dealt with the fact that everyone insists on calling her the Herald of Andraste by focusing on the here and now: closing the rifts, helping the refugees, enforcing order where she can. “I just want to help if I can.”

“You make better decisions than most,” Cassandra says. “So I am glad your people chose to send you.”

Branwen is not sure what to say to that. It is the most favorable thing Cassandra has ever said about her, and there is something both warming and unsettling about knowing the Seeker regards her that highly. She settles on responding, “Thank you, Seeker.”

Cassandra makes that noise again. “Don’t mention it.”

Branwen hides a smile and nods as she stretches her legs to keep up with the taller woman’s strides.


	6. Relaxation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> silksieve requested "Solavellan at camp fluff," and I was happy to deliver.

“There’s a twig in your hair, ma vhenan,” Solas informed Branwen, sounding just as calm and imperturbable as usual. No matter that they had walked for miles that day, had two skirmishes, and closed one rift.

“Is there?” Branwen fumbled at her braided hair and made a face when her fingers found a mass of tangles and, yes, twigs and leaves. She sighed; it seemed like far too much effort to try to sort it out, much less unbraid her hair and rebraid it, something she normally only did every few days.

“Allow me?” Solas said.

She nodded, and allowed her eyes to drift shut as he set to his task. She could feel the gentle tugs as he removed the debris from her hair. “You’re lucky you don’t have this problem,” she remarked, wincing as a few strands pulled.

“You have enough for both of us,” he said, smoothing the tight strands back into place. A moment later, she felt his fingertips on the back of her neck, starting to ease the tense muscles there. She sighed, letting her head nod forward.

He continued, slow and thorough, easing the strain in her neck and shoulders. She was almost about to doze off, until she felt a dull tingling spreading through the sore area, and forced her eyes open. “Are you using lightning on me?”

“Only a little,” he said, amusement barely concealed.

She sighed again. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”

“I know,” he said, with a chuckle, and continued in silence.


	7. Skyhold Under Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First sentence provided by w0rdinista, the rest by me.

The only thing that presented a greater reminder than rain that there were still portions of Skyhold in dire need of repair... was snow.

And it was all well and good to patch over holes in the roof with canvas until the weight of the snow grew too much for the patch, and the whole thing spilled over in a mass of freezing white stuff, cascading onto the floor of the Great Hall, or into the stable, or onto somebody’s desk.

“That looks very unfortunate,” the Inquisitor said, watching Cullen attempt to remove pens and charts and parchment from under the heap of snow.

“Yes, rather,” he grumbled back, and she thought perhaps she’d remove herself and send one of the soldiers back in to help him.

Skyhold was quite pretty under a fresh coat of snow, she thought, but it did make the battlements icy, and she could hear a lot of cursing coming from the gardens and courtyards below as everyone attempted to dig out and clear up the mess.

A messenger boy ran up to her, nearly slipping off the wall in his haste, and blurted, “Inquisitor, come quick! A wardrobe got buried under snow and spoiled some countess’ silks, and Ambassador Montilyet’s trying to calm her down!”

Her eyebrows arched; she wasn’t sure how she could help Josephine, but if it wasn’t one thing, it was another, wasn’t it?


	8. Little Talks

Warden Blackwall wasn’t a man given to idle conversation, Branwen found.

Oh, he didn’t object to talking to her, but he didn’t talk needlessly. He answered the questions she put to him, he ventured an opinion about the readiness of the Inquisition’s troops or the skills of their comrades when asked. They talked about the weather and how it might affect their travels, keeping their eyes turned well away from the Breach as they did.

He was cagey, sometimes, when she asked about the Grey Wardens. Branwen supposed that the order likely had its secrets that he might be bound not to tell. She could respect that.

He asked little of her. One day, as they stood side by side looking out at the mountains around Haven, the forge clanging away behind them, he asked abruptly, “Where was it your clan was?”

“We travel,” Branwen said. “The Free Marches, mainly. Wycome, last I heard.” She found, when she spoke to Blackwall, that she tended to speak as he did: short and to the point, no wasted words.

“A long way to come to this Conclave,” he said.

“Yes.” She opened and closed her left hand, feeling the ache of her mark through the bones. “The Keeper thought we should know, even though these were human affairs.” She’d managed to train herself not to call them shemlen all the time, and felt almost proud of herself for doing so.

Blackwall grunted an acknowledgment. “Forethoughtful.”

Branwen had nothing to say to that. She’d wondered, sometimes, if something more lay behind the Keeper’s decision to send an observer—to send her, of all the clan. She couldn’t imagine she was any chosen one of Andraste, but the Keeper had insights, sometimes, and didn’t share her counsel with everyone. Branwen would give a good deal for her advice, but it took far too long to carry letters to the clan and back.

She took her leave, a little after, no more than a nod passed between them.

She had a hard time guessing how old Blackwall was, behind that full beard. She thought he might be younger than the beard made him look. That thought occurred to her most in the tavern, when he laughed at a joke of Sera’s or Bull’s. He’d been a full-grown man during the Blight, though, and that already ten years gone, and sometimes she looked in his eyes and thought he was older yet. That thought hit her, too, in the tavern, when Maryden sang one of her sad ballads, about regrets or lost youth or bloody revenge.

Once they’d relocated to Skyhold, it took Branwen nearly a full day to realize that Blackwall had taken up residence in the stable. “We have perfectly good quarters in the main keep,” she said. “There’s a whole wing that’s hardly occupied at all.”

Blackwall folded his arms over his broad chest. “Begging your pardon, Inquisitor, but the stairs creak, and there are odd noises at night. I’m comfortable enough here.”

The title still made Branwen itch, like a new pair of boots she hadn’t worn in yet. She breathed in the aroma of horse and hay, and thought about her own quarters, yawning and empty, and the way the mountain winds whistled in around the balcony doors sometimes. Over dinner, Solas had scoffed at the suggestion that Skyhold was haunted, and sure enough, they hadn’t found any signs of anything undead. “Well,” she said, not wanting to push. Her new authority surely didn’t extend to where anyone slept. “If you’re sure.”

“The stable suits me fine,” he said.

Their talks were easy enough, uncomplicated. It came to be a pleasant part of her routine, coming out to the stable for a chat, listening to the horses in their stalls and watching Blackwall keep his hands busy with his carving.

Until the day Branwen came out to the stable and he was gone, leaving only a note behind, and leaving her to wonder just how much she’d missed by not asking more questions.


	9. Bury me amid nature's beauty

The Emerald Graves might be the most beautiful, and the most terrible, place that Branwen had ever seen. 

She had loved the rain and cliffs and forest of the Storm Coast. She had admired the stark mountains surrounding Haven, and Skyhold. Even the dry wilderness of the Western Approach had impressed her with its beauty.

But here, she moved in forest, deep and green, where the trees stretched so high, and so close together, that the undergrowth hardly ever saw the sun. The soil smelled rich and loamy, cool and damp, and clusters of fungus thrived among the roots, while small wild things skittered through the underbrush at their approach. Above, the trees towered, straight of trunk and graceful of limb, and the sunlight that broke through their leaves cast dappled light on herself and her companions. Something in it spoke to her, deep in her heart, and she stepped lightly. This was sacred ground, watered by the blood of her ancestors, and where the Exalted Plains had been choked with thousands of deaths, this place still breathed with life. Many of these trees must have been untouched since the fall of the Dales; perhaps some of them had been mighty even then.

When she stood in the presence of the Vallasdahlen themselves, she could hardly move.

She bestirred herself before anyone noticed, and walked from one to the next, as carefully and gently as she could. Briathos, Mathalin, Ralaferin, Calmar, Tanaleth, Elnora, Sulan, Lindirane: she read each name, and recalled each tale as best she could. These were the real graves, and here the ground most sacred of all.

These Emerald Knights of old… they, too, had stood between their people and destruction, and been protectors and leaders. In another lifetime, if the Dales had never fallen, she might have been one of them, might have scouted and patrolled these woods. Branwen wondered if any of them had felt overwhelmed, had had leadership thrust upon them. Had they doubted? Had they wondered what purpose placed them where they were? 

At camp that night, she asked Harding, “What manner of seeds do the Vallasdahlen have?”

The scout blinked at her, startled. “The Life-Trees? I… I don’t know. I can inquire.”

“If it’s no trouble,” Branwen said, hating to put her out for such a small, selfish thing. “If we could acquire a seed or two…”

Harding nodded, earnest. “I’ll see what we can do.”

Chances were that the seeds wouldn’t thrive so high in the mountains as Skyhold. Then again, Skyhold had its peculiarities, so who could be sure? But if, if it could be done, and if Branwen were to die—

She put the thought away, not wanting to contemplate the monuments the Chantry might build for her, or not.


	10. Ultracrepidarian (Morrigan and Branwen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ultracrepidarian: of one who speaks or offers opinions on matters beyond their knowledge

Morrigan could hardly contain herself. Her fury seethed; at moments like these, she would rather be wolf, so that she could bare her teeth and stalk, low and predatory. She could barely stand to listen to the Inquisitor’s halting explanation of what she heard for one more moment.

 _Whispers_ , she said. _It should be shouts_ , Morrigan had replied. The voices of the Well of Sorrows should have been singing like bells, pealing clear in the ears, if only one who had known had been the one to hear them.

“So little?” she snapped. “Had you not insisted, we might have far more wisdom to carry.”

The Inquisitor turned narrowed eyes on her, pale, more gray now than blue. Once Morrigan had thought her a sensible enough woman, ready to listen to the counsel of those wiser and more experienced than herself, and certainly clever in her way.

“That wisdom was not yours to take,” the Inquisitor said.

Morrigan sneered. No matter how well she had learned to school her face, she could not stop her lip from curling, her nostrils from flaring. With such words, the Inquisitor proved herself no more than Dalish. Foolish people, clinging to their tattered legends and customs, as if their vaunted gods were anything more than mere stories. Morrigan had thought the Inquisitor might be more, but no, she was as limited as the rest of her people. “Nor was it yours, since you have not the slightest idea how to make use of it,” she said. Her jaw ached from clenching her teeth. Folly and selfishness, all of it; to think of it, such learning lost to her, forever, and given instead to a woman with more skill on the battlefield than wit in her head, or so it appeared. Morrigan should have simply drunk, not waited for the Inquisitor’s choice.

A muscle twitched in the Inquisitor’s cheek. “I have more right than you,” she said, lifting a hand to trace the curved, branching lines across her cheek. “I have worn Mythal’s mark since I became an adult.”

Morrigan dismissed her with a snort. Such legends were stories told to children, no more, and the marks pretty enough but of no meaning. There was nothing more to be gained by continuing the conversation, however. “I suppose what is done is done,” she said, and turned on her heel. She could not bring herself to stay in the Inquisitor’s presence any longer, and moreover, she had left Kieran in the care of others long enough.

For once Morrigan rather missed the sweeping skirts of court dress, even as cumbersome as they were. They did foster a dramatic exit. The sound of her boots on the stone floor, alone, was not nearly as satisfying.


	11. Bolt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is the lightning bolt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after the break-up, right at the final battle.

She hasn’t talked to Solas since… well, _since_. Not really. There isn’t much to talk about, is there? They both understand the stakes and what is to come. It feels strange, nonetheless; they used to talk frequently, even before… well, _before_. Before there were any stronger feelings between them, they had shared a purpose, and, she had thought, a sense of being apart from the shemlen all around them, and so they had talked often about one thing or another: travels and marvels and the strangeness of people. Now, though, Branwen avoids the lowest level of the tower as much as possible. She must pass through, it is true, but she goes swiftly on her way from one place to another, her head held high, exchanging the barest of nods if their eyes happen to meet. She has enough pride not to beg for anything, even an explanation.

And yet, when they reach their final battle is upon them, and the moment comes to divide her forces, to choose her own team and send the others elsewhere, she says his name without even thinking about it.

She can see the others notice. Sera’s eyebrows go up and her full lips round out into an O. Dorian casts a swift glance from herself to Solas and back. Varric gives her a look of concern. Varric was the one who saw her just after, though, and who drank a few rounds of ale with her at a corner table in the Herald’s Rest, and even confessed a few things about Bianca that she’ll keep to herself, since Varric doesn’t make his confessions lightly.

None of them remark on her selection, however, and Cassandra takes her place at Branwen’s side as usual, sword and shield at the ready, sturdy and severe, so it’s all right. If Solas has any thoughts on the matter himself, he keeps them locked away, behind a down-turned mouth and gray eyes that give away nothing.

Branwen knows why she did it. Of all of them, she and he have fought together the most. This moment is too critical to court errors, to make a mistake because she’s expecting one thing and getting another. There is virtue in predictability at moments like these.

She draws her weapons, steel glinting in the churning light of this new breach. She knows she made the right choice as soon as she feels the flare of his magic around her skin. Each mage, she has learned, has a different sense to their magic, almost a scent or taste, or perhaps something she perceives with another sense entirely. Their barriers are as individual as they. Dorian’s feels like a summer day, the heat itself a shield against anything that would harm her. Vivienne’s feels cool and smooth as glass, and Branwen could swear it comes with a whiff of some fine perfume, essence of rose or lily.

Solas, though— she hasn’t asked anyone else, but to her his magic feels bracing, crisp and sharp like pine needles, with a subtle charge. It’s a day in the forest when the air chills quickly, a thunderstorm about to hit, and _she_ is the lightning bolt, blades in both hands as she flings herself into the fray.

In that moment she knows the truth of the words he gave her, that what they have—had—was real. What is in him and what is in her speak and answer, each to the other, without words. It almost does not matter that he walked away, that even with a face full of regret, he turned his back, that he will assuredly resume his wanderings once their victory is attained.

Almost. But those things, too, are true, and they will matter as soon as the battle is done.


	12. things you said after you kissed me (Branwen and Solas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Branwen reflects on their time together.

When it’s all over, when I know the truth, I pull what’s left of my arm close to my chest and try to think back over all our times together.

My arm doesn’t hurt any more. You gave me that, at least. Is there a reason you didn’t do it sooner, I wonder?

There were good times, weren’t there? I believe that. I think I have to believe that, or I don’t know what I’d do. I’ve closed the door on all my advisors – my friends – arguing and planning and strategizing, so I can remember without them interrupting, without their anger at you clouding my thoughts.

I remember staring into the star-strewn sky, with the comforting crackle of the campfire nearby. We counted constellations and traded stories, and you pulled bits of grass out of my hair. Your kisses were firm and perfect and tasted like smoke, those nights, and it was dark enough that I couldn’t see if there were shadows in your eyes when we parted.

I kissed you in the evenings when I found you putting your paints away, and you’d tell me about light and shadow and composition, but never what you would paint the next day. You didn’t want to spoil the surprise, you said.

We drank mulled cider on winter nights when the pass to Skyhold was waist-deep in snow, and you read to me from fairy tales and courtly dramas and mystery serials and anything else we had to hand.

You kissed me in the gardens at Halamshiral and told me you’d saved me one of the tiny spicy cakes, so delicate the crumbs melted away on my tongue.

You looked at me, sometimes, as if I were the sun and the stars and the moons all rolled into one, and you told me I was perfect.

But sometimes you looked at me with such sorrow on your face –

(your face is so expressive, it’s a wonder you ever hid anything at all –)

– you looked at me with sadness in your eyes, and your lips trembled, and you drew away. As if I were some grand highborn lady, and you something unworthy that could never have her. I could never understand why, because I was right there.

I understand now.

I will hold onto these memories as best I can, to remind myself that there was something more than what everyone thinks of you now. Even that last kiss, just hours ago, with both of us shaking and the Anchor trying to tear me apart, was passionate and tender, if desperate. I will remember that, too.

I don’t wonder if it was real, what we had. If it felt real enough to me, I must believe it felt the same to you.

But I do wonder:

Did you ever allow yourself to forget? Did you ever kiss me without regretting it?


	13. Yarrow: Cure for a broken heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Branwen finds solace in friendship.

Branwen has never been the sort to cry on someone’s shoulder, and she’d prefer not to be pitied. So it’s rather a relief that those members of the Inquisition who have stayed at Skyhold treat her as if nothing’s changed.

Well, Sera has brought her cookies more than once, so that’s different — cookies that might be a “sorry I aimed an arrow at you” peace offering, or a “sorry your elfy friend ditched you” consolation, but which Sera says are just “yeah we stuck it to Corphy-boo” victory cookies, so Branwen will take them. Varric maybe checks on how she’s doing a little more often, and invites her down to the tavern for drinks a few times, but once she’s there, everything is mercifully normal. The Iron Bull doesn’t treat her any differently at all, and nor does Cullen or Blackwall. Leliana probably still has agents out looking for any trace of Solas, but she hasn’t given Branwen a progress report, and Branwen hasn’t asked. Josephine gave her the kindest smile, and offered to lend an ear if Branwen needed to talk, but she hasn’t pressed the point.

For the most part, Branwen would prefer not to talk about it. It should come as no surprise, really, that an always-enigmatic apostate might choose to vanish rather than remain, no matter how benign the Inquisition’s position on magic and its uses. No, she prefers to keep herself busy, and there is still plenty for that. There are still nobles visiting, still letters pouring in about demon sightings, red lyrium, problems that the Inquisitor might mediate, perhaps, if she were so gracious? All sorts of things to keep a person busy at her desk and in meetings with her advisers. 

But she still stops for a moment every time she enters the rotunda, which is too quiet now, the desk in the center bare of anything meaningful. She lingers sometimes, looks around her at the bold, still shapes of the fresco painted into the walls. She’s heard some of the craftsmen muttering words like “masterpiece,” and some of the visitors to Skyhold have asked to see it. 

Solas used to read to her, sometimes. She liked to keep her hands busy, mending or sorting herbs or tending to her gear, and sometimes he came up to her quarters, but sometimes she met him here and worked while he read in a voice soothing and sonorous. 

So her steps falter, when she comes into the rotunda in the evenings, and she proceeds up the stairs with a sigh. 

Just over a week goes by, and when she comes into the rotunda this time, she finds Dorian there, booted feet propped up on the desk, so this time she stops in surprise.

“Cassandra left this book, and it’s dreadful,” he says without so much as a good evening, Inquisitor. “Simply atrocious. I can’t believe this is a remotely accurate rendering of Dalish customs, but perhaps you can enlighten me, Inquisitor—” and he starts reading a passage involving Dalish elves dancing naked in a forest clearing that has Branwen shaking her head within minutes.

“No,” she says. “No, we don’t do that.”

“I thought no. No self-respecting person would.”

“That isn’t one of Varric’s, is it?” Branwen asks.

“No,” Dorian replies, “now what about this part?” and keeps reading.

She smiles, slowly, and sinks down onto the couch, listening.


	14. Lay your cards on the table (Branwen and Leliana)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Trespasser, Trespasser spoilers.

“You love him still,” said Leliana. 

Her voice was cool and implacable, and even after working together for years, Branwen could not always be sure when Leliana disapproved and when she was merely testing for a reaction. She grimaced. “That’s not all there is to it.” 

“No?” Leliana circled the table, hands behind her back. 

“No.” Branwen clenched her fist – her one fist – for emphasis. “It’s not. I mean, it shows me…” She paused, struggling for the right words. “I knew him in a way the rest of you didn’t,” she said eventually. “So I see him differently. It doesn’t mean I’m blinding myself.” 

“What is it that you see?” Leliana stopped and waited, still and unblinking. Not unlike one of her ravens. 

Branwen sighed and relaxed her hand, spreading her fingers out on the table. “He’s a rational person. There are reasons behind what he does. He rarely acts on impulse, or thoughtlessly. And he does care about people, he’s compassionate, he just…” She lifted her eyes to meet Leliana’s. “If your whole world were destroyed, wouldn’t you want it back? Even if the cost were high?” 

She knew the answer to that question already. She had seen it in that other Redcliffe, in the future which had never happened. But she didn’t know if Leliana knew her own answer to that question. She waited, and watched the calculations happening behind Leliana’s eyes. 

Leliana sighed and took the seat opposite Branwen. “I would. But the cost, Branwen—”

“I know.” Branwen looked down at the maps and reports scattered across the table. “If you think I’m too compromised, I can step away.” It would be a relief, really, not to carry this burden, too. “But I may be able to get through to him.” 

“I imagine you’re the only one who can.” 

“Why tell me and walk away, if not to give me the chance? He knew I would try to stop him.” 

“True,” said Leliana. “And I never thought him… cruel. Not cruel enough to hint at mercy where none could be found. But if he cannot be found and persuaded…” 

“Then he has to be stopped, no matter what. I know.” Branwen traced over the vast expanse of the Dales lightly. There was so much that a person as powerful as Solas could do for the People _without_ unraveling the entire world, as Solas evidently planned. If only she could make him _see_. But if she couldn’t. “I understand how things may end.” 

Leliena reached over and touched her hand lightly before pulling back. She said, “In truth, I should apologize to you.” 

Branwen was already shaking her head, but Leliana pressed on: “I know I failed you, again.” 

“You didn’t.” 

Leliana shrugged. On her the movement was graceful and fluid. “I failed to find Solas. I failed to see the rumors for what they were. I failed to detect his spies.” 

“We saw the pieces, we just didn’t put them together.” Missing artifacts, peculiar movements of elven servants, the utter absence of Solas himself; they’d seen these things, but not grasped the full dimensions of the situation. “And you had said, repeatedly, that the Inquisition had grown too large and unwieldy for security. We knew our ranks were riddled with spies. We just didn’t know whose.” 

“True.” Leliana pursed her lips thoughtfully. “No such difficulty now. Only, we will have to select our agents very carefully.” 

“Yes.” The disbanding of the Inquisition had been the right call. Branwen felt lighter every time another contingent of soldiers or servants or secretaries left. The large, armed, visible presence that had Ferelden and Orlais so worried would not serve to catch one as elusive as Fen’harel. Far better, from here, to rely on their loose and far-flung network of trustworthy people – Dorian in Tevinter, Josephine, once she’d gone home to Antiva, Varric in Kirkwall, Cassandra and Vivienne in Orlais. Branwen reached for the lists of Inquisition personnel. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”


	15. Tending an injury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pre-relationship early-game ficlet for the prompt "tending an injury," from thievinghippo

Solas watched her often – this woman they called Andraste’s herald, who wore Mythal’s mark of servitude on her face. He could see her discomfort, how she stiffened when the humans talked of Andraste, how she tilted her head and deferred to their ways. 

This age had gone ill for the People. His shame chafed at that like ill-fitting clothing. 

And yet she held her high. She guarded herself and chose her words with care, but when she spoke, the humans listened. 

He could hardly look away from her. He told himself that it was the puzzle of it, as he still struggled to understand just what had happened; or perhaps it was the aura of the orb, clinging to her like a residue, working its way under her skin and into her bones. Whatever it was, she drew his attention like no other, whether she were doing no more than listening without fidgeting, or flitting about the battlefield with deadly grace. 

It was that, perhaps, which led him to be careless that day. Foolish inattention, even for one reduced as he was. He nearly burned with embarrassment when the arrow struck his arm – not a serious wound, the point caught in the fleshy part of his upper arm, but he was no apprentice or child to be caught so. 

“It’s not serious,” he assured Lavellan, once the battle was done, and she approached to see to him. 

“You’re right, it’s not,” she said, still examining the wound gravely. 

Even so, she set about tending it with brisk care. The arrow proved easy enough to extract, and she pressed a pad of linen bandages to catch the blood that welled up there, and then bound his arm with care and efficiency. Solas watched, struck into silence. The pride within him wanted to push her way, dismiss the wound as trivial; his shame reminded him that he was not above another’s care, not now; his caution reminded him that he had a role to play. 

All of those diminished as he watched her, steady hands and simple skill, concentrating on this task just as much as she had focused on the battle before. The mark flickered green between her fingers while she worked, but it did not seem to trouble her. 

She tied the bandage off and asked if it was too tight, to which Solas shook his head, and she smiled as she left, moving on to the next person in their band. Solas watched her go, marveling at this honest care for a stranger.


	16. A lazy morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combining two prompts from silksieve: "a morning kiss" and "accidentally sleeping in."

Branwen woke slowly, conscious at first simply of warmth, and the pleasure of being surrounded by clean, soft bedding. She stretched languorously, sliding across the smooth sheets, easing the stiffness out of her limbs, flexing and extending her toes. The bed had seemed too luxurious at first, but weeks of camping in the field (far less comfortable than sleeping in an aravel) had taught her to appreciate Skyhold’s over-refined comforts. 

Then she opened her eyes and realized that the light was all wrong: too bright, slanting from too high in the sky, and she sat bolt upright, swearing to herself in Dalish. “Creators, I’m going to be late!” She’d been meant to meet with her councilors first thing in the morning, and check in with Master Dennet at the stables, and review assorted reports… 

“Nonsense.” 

Branwen’s eyes tracked the voice to its source and found Solas occupying a chair by the desk, clad in a shirt and leggings. He set the tome he’d been reading aside and went on, “You’re the Inquisitor. Surely your advisors can wait on you.” 

“You don’t understand.” Her hands rose to her head, running over her hair to make sure her braids were still intact. The mark pulsed, a tiny throb of pain that was over quickly. “Josephine has a _schedule_. It’s very detailed. I may be the Inquisitor, but I don’t want to make them waste their time.” She was a little surprised that Josephine hadn’t sent a minion to rouse her, actually. She must have slept at least an hour later than she’d meant. 

Solas crooked a brow. “Did you not arrive back from the Hissing Wastes only yesterday mid-afternoon?” 

That was true, and the journey had meant days in the saddle, but even so. “Do you have any idea how many matters must have come up while I was away?” It was all the more important that she get moving and deal with things, really. 

“Having been here while you were away, I have a fairly good idea.” Solas rose, picked up a cup from the desk, and crossed to the bed. Branwen stared at him as he seated himself gracefully on the bed and offered her the cup. “There is nothing so urgent it may not wait a little longer. For anything truly dire, a messenger would have been sent.” 

A tempting aroma of tea and mint rose from the cup. Branwen took it, inhaling her favorite morning drink. “You hate tea,” she pointed out. 

He smiled and shrugged one shoulder. “But you enjoy it.” 

She took a sip. It was perfect, still hot – or more likely, magically heated just now – and steeped exactly right. She breathed in the aroma and let the flavors unfurl across her tongue. “Thank you.” 

Solas smiled again, looking both fond and satisfied. Branwen leaned across and kissed him, warm and lingering, the taste of the tea mingling with the taste of the kiss.


End file.
